


May I Suggest? - A Mandalorian Prompt Collection

by Boggy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Body Worship, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Prompt Fill, Romance, Smutty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boggy/pseuds/Boggy
Summary: A collection of prompt fills/fic requests forThe Mandalorian.  Ratings and characters vary.
Relationships: The Mandalorian & The Armorer, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 65





	1. (NSFW) Day 6 - "Worship"

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a heck of a lot easier than deleting and uploading separate stories, I'm posting all prompt fills and fic requests here, in a single collection, separate from my other _The Mandalorian_ works. This is my ~~dodgy attempt at smut~~ NSFW prompt fill for Day 6 ("Worship"), as provided by Mandothon2020 (submission since withdrawn). As all my pieces are (essentially) part of one long, on-going headcanon of DinxOmera's relationship/how the series plays out, you can effectively tie this in with any of the rest of my _The Mandalorian_ fics. Never fear, this acts/works as a standalone piece just as well.

If someone had said five years ago—hell, _two_ years ago—that any vow would mean as much as his vow to honor the Creed, he might have laughed. (He’d have definitely huffed.) 

For someone to imply that any vow would mean _more_ , he might have straight up jacked their jaw.

But the truth of it was, his present vow was not only as important and more, but something that had driven him to a point of giddiness his former self could scarcely comprehend.

First it was fatherhood, then defection from the guild, followed by disillusionment with “The Way” and a series of strange encounters and phenomenon—to which he’d responded with a _Yeah, okay_ and a sigh—and ultimately, the complete and utter surrender of his soul to the only thing since boyhood that had brought him peace.

He’d kept his promises, delivered The Child to the Jedi, and set a course for that dreary, backwater little planet and the beautiful widow who lived there. He’d carried both in his travels, tucked safely inside the protective layers of his beskar, their memory something like a half-hope, half-dream that the secret places of himself clung to—desperately so—in the dark. Sorgan was the only planet since the destruction of his homeworld that had held any measure of sentiment for the rootless Mando, and he’d hyper-drived to its location with a _neediness_ that bordered on rage. His intensity was such he’d nearly damaged the control panel of his ship punching in the coordinates of his destination.

With his expectations tempered and stomach lodged somewhere between his throat and his spine, he’d _dared_.

Dared to dream. Dared to ask. Dared to admit. Dared to succumb.

Looking back, it might have behooved him to have formulated some semblance of a plan. To have rehearsed a witty speech or even shined up his armor a little on the way in. At the very least he should have brought a gift (and a sizable one given his repeated haphazard tumbling in and out of their lives).

In the end, he’d done none of that. He’d swaggered into the village, shakily so, his gaze zeroing in on the widow’s house with the slightly unrealistic expectation that she simply _be there_.

...And surprisingly enough, she was.

All pretense of “smoothness” gelled into a pile of Mandalorian goo at the sight of her dark hair and slight, pretty frame. What little was left of his brain evaporated into starlit _nothingness_ the second her body turned and her tender, chocolate gaze locked eyes with his own. And as she walked forward to meet him, face brimming with emotion there weren’t words in Mando’a to describe, he’d braced himself for the worst. Because as loving and kind and all-encompassingly _good_ as he believed the woman to be, he knew as strong as he knew his own helmet that he didn’t deserve any of what he had hoped and dreamed could exist between them. Especially knowing that she could very easily share that same loving, kind, all-encompassing goodness with _anyone else_ and be all the better for it.

Yet here he was—unmasked, armor off, lying stark naked under a layer of sheets, with _stars above_ the most beautiful creature in the galaxy nestled beside him. 

The moment was more magical than he had education or intelligence to put to speech. 

Truly, the only vow that mattered to him now was the vow he’d made to honor Omera as his wife. It’d been a simple, pompless affair—neither cared anything for the fuss of a wedding—off-planet, believing it in the best interest of everyone if the Mandalorian and his “family” just _disappeared_. It’d taken some adjusting, especially on Winta’s part. But a farmer Din was not, and Omera thrilled at the opportunity of giving her—now _their_ —sheltered daughter a life outside harvesting krill.

They’d yet to find real permanence, about anything, but there was no denying the deliriousness of their happy routine. Every evening of the last three weeks had ended the same: sheets in disarray and entanglement in one another’s arms. The first experience had...overwhelmed him, unaccustomed as he was to being so totally exposed for the consumption of another. Thankfully, Omera had guided them both, her words a coo of encouragement as his body reeled and jerked from an overload of sensation that he just _knew_ , in his pleasured panic, would be the very thing that finally killed him. And once his core stilled long enough for him to once again form rational thought, he wondered how it was the universe had ever produced one organism so distinctly and unequivocally perfect.

Their subsequent attempts fared better, though it was only in recent couplings he’d worked up the boldness to explore with his hands what his eyes had committed to memory their first night.

It was that very boldness that drove the tips of his fingers tracing along the edges of her bare back. Omera half-hummed, half-giggled into the meat of her arms as she lay sprawled stomach-down on the left-hand side of their tousled bed. With pointed admiration, his forefinger ghosted the full length of the curvature of her spine. Trailing upwards, he added a second finger, following the smooth plane of a shoulder blade before backtracking down into the dip above her hind end. He’d only just begun an exploration of the swell of her breast when Omera jostled beside him.

“That tickles!” she half-whined, her midsection arching off the bed at the jolt searing through her skin.

Din gave thought to a laugh but squashed it down. The sound of his own voice would only soil the beauty of hers.

Instead, he brought his lips to where his fingers stilled, coaxing her body with his hands to roll onto her back, the unashamed openness of it a kind of headiness that made his brain swim. The front of her was of peculiar... _interest_ to him, hers being the only woman’s body he’d ever seen _au naturel_. 

Omera smiled shyly at his momentary stupor. Not even her first husband—a decent if not uninspired man—had regarded her with such unrepentant reverence. It was an intoxicating thing, the thought of being so singularly precious to another. Din was to her what she was to him, and she had spent nearly every free moment of the past three weeks searching for a way to tell him so. Except their relationship had never been based on words. And for what he was and the life he’d lived, Din shied easily. But the ex-Mandalorian was not without depth of feeling, and she could only trust in the shared connection between them that he understood the infatuation was mutual.

As she prattled on internally, Din brought the same forefinger from before to the brim of her nose. In a repeat performance of her back, he trailed his finger down to the rounded point of her chin, then back up the bump of her lips stopping only when he reached the smooth gap between her brows. His features were hard, focused, cataloging the details of her face and the intensity she saw there made her whole body flush.

“The tankard, please?”

Before their departure, the residents of Sorgan had generously loaded the Razor Crest down with two barrels of the village’s finest Spotchka. A wedding gift, of sorts, for a couple sailing off into the unknown. They'd cracked one open their second week out, indulging only in the evenings after putting Winta to bed. Din was a lightweight when it came to liquor; Mandalorian armor didn't afford the luxury of recreational drinking. A few swallows and he was down for the count. Omera was better acquainted with the stuff, having brewed it for a living up until three weeks before, and could put four, five flask-fulls away without so much as a hic. 

Din watched with rapt fascination at the sight of her lips against the brim of the glass, the movement of her throat as she swallowed the ale, and the darkening heat of her gaze peeking out from behind the cup. With a conspiratory smile, she leaned up just enough to catch the tip of his finger with her teeth, nipping it once before settling herself back down into the bed.

It took everything in her not to laugh at her husband’s bewildered look. His eyes were wide and his hand and forefinger hung mid-air, frozen from shock. Despite her efforts, a small giggle escaped, grounding Din’s attention back to the planet. His head tilted sideways then—a thoughtful habit, she’d gleaned—the wheels of his brain churning slowly as an ingenious thought flashed across the warmth of his eyes.

With pointed focus, he recaptured the glass, positioning the tankard midway above her chest. Tipping it _ever-so-slightly_ forward, Omera gasped as a light trickle of Spotchka ran out and over onto the flat between her breasts. The lukewarm liquid trailed south in a _tortuously_ steady line, down the stomach and into the navel where it pooled, the excess spider-webbing across the expanse of her hips. In one fluid motion he relinquished the tankard into her wobbly hand and settled his mouth against the skin of her chest, his tongue and teeth footprinting the path of runaway ale. She squirmed under his lips as his fingers followed his tongue’s descent with a feathery softness that set her lower regions ablaze. It took every ounce of the nearly non-existent concentration she had not to abandon her cup of Spotchka—a waste of good booze and ruinous to the floor—for a fistful of the ex-Mandalorian’s hair.

Her breathing hitched as his movements advanced further south, the tip of his nose trailing his tongue. Just when and _how_ had he learned to do such a thing? But the question was quickly squashed at the feeling of his lips there—stars above, _there_ —his free hand tap-tapping at the insides of her thigh. And with gentleness a battle-weary warrior shouldn’t possess, he planted an open-mouthed kiss against the wetness between her legs, reverent and soft and with a maddeningly controlled _pressure_ that sent her hips jolting off the bed into his face in an effort to just _feel more_.

And despite her instincts screaming _Yes, please_ and _For the love of space, don’t stop_ , she grabbed him by the arm, tugging him forward with her free hand and kissing him as hard as she’d kissed anything in her life. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, the taste of Spotchka and her own arousal an intoxicant in its own right.

“No sense in wasting prized ale,” she huffed huskily into his mouth. 

And to that, Din did laugh, retrieving the tankard from his wife and settling it off to the side, its purpose served. And with a half-shove, half-caress, he lowered her back down into the sheets, his mouth once again finding purchase on the fiery wetness between her legs.

Some time later, spent and satiated and his wife curled adoringly into his side, he knew: his life had been a life of vows. But this one, this _one_ , left all other vows in the dust.


	2. (General) Day 7 - "Sleepy; Recovery"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of prompt fills/fic requests for _The Mandalorian_. Ratings and characters vary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. It took DAYS to work this one out, but I'm pretty pleased with the end result. This piece serves as an "excerpt" from my (yet-to-be-written) _The Mandalorian_ AU fic series. But like the first prompt, requires no prior knowledge and/or reading to understand (which is good, because as I mentioned—the series this story is for doesn't exist). I don't normally do AU; in fact, this is my first foray into the genre, as I have never before felt the compulsion to write it. But given we're one season in and a piddly eight episodes to work with, I felt it necessary to branch out. (Plus, _The Mandalorian_ just _feels_ like it belongs in a universe outside _Star Wars_ , you know?)
> 
> Please enjoy.

It started as a slight pressure at the tip of his right-side shoulder. He could feel it, he just didn’t know what it was.

“ _..rin? _ ”

Then it was some sort of muffled noise. He couldn’t make much sense of the sound.

Two seconds later, another press against his flesh. 

What the _ hell  _ was that poking into his skin? 

“Mr. Djarin?” 

_ That _ was a name, he knew.

...Oh wait.

That was _ his _ name.

And then he recognized the voice.

Startled, Din jolted up off his stomach, the pillow half-leaning against his head flopping out and over onto the floor. His brain whirled a little, eyes wide at being jostled out of an unusually sound sleep. He breathed in heavy through his nose, the fog of disorientation lifting as he peered down from the cornucopia of sheets tangled around him. There, facing him at the foot of his bed was eight-year-old Winta, garbed in lilypad pajamas and bare feet. 

Her face was wide-eyed and pleading.

“Mr. Djarin?”

“What, uh...” he pushed himself up on his hands, steadying his still drowsy body with his knees. “What’s the matter, Winta?”

“I’m thirsty.”

Dutifully, Din untangled himself from the bed. He was normally much more alert upon waking—of course he would choose tonight, of  _ all  _ nights, to collapse into oblivion—stirring at even the slightest of disturbances. It’d been only a handful of months as a “new dad” and a year at St. John’s, but the changes had clearly taken their toll. 

Thankfully, he recovered fast.

Winta stepped back to give him space, latching onto the band of his sleep jeans the second his feet hit the floor. Din moved to untangle her from his waist, marveling at how readily she sought his care and trying his darndest not to choke at the feeling of her tiny fingers cradled inside his own. He recalled how hesitant she’d been when he’d first arrived...a fact for which he was partly to blame—kid was so quiet he hadn’t heard her sneaking up behind him when he was unpacking the car—unaccustomed as he was to, well, _everything_. But to his surprise, Omera had apologized, asking he not take Winta’s wariness too personally as it’d been “just the two of them” for some time. And that a man,  _ any _ man, was both a thing of awe and uncertainty for the timid young girl. 

It might have been a misinterpretation on his part, but something in the woman’s tone suggested it was for her as well.

They’d moved past tip-toeing around one another pretty quick, thanks in no small part to his cutesy, year-old “son” helping to bridge the gap. Now, barely six months into their new living arrangements, Din wondered how he’d ever existed without Winta running circles at his feet and Omera—dear Lord above,  _ Omera_—smiling prettily at him from every corner of the house.

“Cold?”

Winta shook her head, her free hand curling its way onto the ends of his shirt. She seemed rather hellbent on keeping him close, making Din wonder if it was _ fear _ more so than thirst that had driven her midnight excursion into his room. 

“How’s the kid?”

“Still sleeping.”

That figured. As much of a “busybody” as his “son” could be, the second those twilight striations hit the sky he was down for the count. It was a rare thing if the little guy stirred before dawn. Din supposed it was all the daytime exertion that tuckered him out.

Satisfied with the state of his boy, he and Winta made their way downstairs into the kitchen. He guided her to a chair, grabbing a bottle of cherry juice from the fridge and a duo of glasses from the cupboard above the sink. He filled the glasses halfway, tossing in a couple cubes of ice to help dilute some of the tartness of the juice.

Scooting one her way, he seated himself down next to her at the island bar. She took the proffered drink, staring intently at the blocks of ice clanking around as she swirled her cup. She sipped head down, fingers clasped, eyes locked onto the light wood surface of the tabletop while Din looked on. Something about her demeanor troubled him, but he held his peace, eyeballing her from the side as they downed both their drinks in silence. The ice was little more than a red-tinted puddle at the base of his cup when Din decided it was high time the both of them marched off to bed.

“Come on,” Din coaxed, reaching for the empty glass. “I’ll take you back to your room.”

Winta’s head jerked to face him, staring up at him with those same pleading eyes that hit him like a punch in the throat.

“Can’t we stay up? Just a little longer?”

Din sighed, knowing Omera would never stand his keeping her daughter up all hours of the night. “It’s pretty late. You won’t want to get up in the morning.” 

No response.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

The little girl shook her head.

“Are you...” Din paused, trying to piece together what little he’d learned of children in the last six months. “...Is it me?” It didn’t make sense that it would be, given her behavior. But it was all he could think of to ask. “My being here. Is that a problem?”

Winta shook her head even harder. Din felt absurdly relieved.

But if it wasn’t the presence of _ him_, perhaps it was the absence of…

“You miss your mom?”

She rubbed her nose, stifling a sniffle.

Bingo. 

Omera had only been gone a day, but Din knew the mother and daughter to be very close. They were all one another had—it was tough to imagine he and the kid counted, as tempting a notion as it was—and by Din’s estimation had never spent more than a few  _ hours _ apart, let alone an entire weekend. Omera had left late Friday evening, promising to be back by Sunday night. There was some “urgent family business” to attend to, though Omera hadn’t specified what and Din hadn’t felt comfortable enough to ask. The woman was rather _ tight-lipped _ as it pertained to her extended kin, and even more so as it pertained to her ex. He’d gathered their short-lived marriage had been a rocky one, and that Omera took significant pains to separate Winta from, in the divorcee’s words, “the great mistake.” 

She normally left Winta in the care of a neighbor. But packing her daughter up for a two-day sleepover was a chore, especially with her _ no life_, live-in renter just two doors down the hall. Din hadn’t seen the harm in offering to keep an eye on things. Winta was a good kid; in almost no time at all he’d gotten absurdly attached to the little tyke. Plus, if she was home, she’d entertain his “son.” And a preoccupied baby meant he’d have peace for tackling his lesson plans for the upcoming work week.

Looking back, he hadn’t really taken the potential for “problems” into enough consideration.

But it was what it was. Omera had happily—and to Din’s surprise, almost immediately—consented to his being in charge of both her daughter and her house. He’d watched over them before, usually on weekends when Omera had to work or during Professional Development days when school was out. But only for a handful of hours and usually with Omera less than fifteen minutes and a phone call away. For this she was clear on the other side of the state. He was a piss-poor substitute for her mom, but the circumstances being what they were, he would have to suffice.

Winta had gotten through Friday night well enough. And all that day she’d been too preoccupied with helping him fix meals and playing with the baby to take notice. He supposed the absence was only now beginning to kick in. If they could just make it through tonight, her mother would be back sometime in the late evening and all would be right with the world. His only regret was not having the foresight to ask what to do in the event Winta was scared or couldn’t sleep.

“She’ll be back later today,” he promised, hoping the words sounded as comforting as he meant them to be. “Come on. The sooner you get to bed, the sooner it’ll be morning. And the faster you’ll get to see your mom.”

“But…” 

She hesitated.

“But?”

“Sometimes people leave and don’t come back.”

Oof. 

The hell did  _ that  _ come from?

“Why…” his voice faltered a bit. “Why would you say that? Of course your mom is coming back.” He winced watching her shrink into herself on the stool. With quick thinking he added, “It’s only because it was such a long trip that you couldn’t go with her.”

Din winced again, chiding himself internally for his words. What he’d said was  _ partly _ true, except he wagered there were more serious reasons for leaving Winta behind than the overnight drive. But something inside told him Winta was already well aware. The girl was smart for her age, asking the kinds of questions that suggested she understood, on some level, that relations between her mother and father weren’t good. 

Winta never spoke of her dad. The one or two off-handed mentions of him by her mom had been met with either disinterest or disdain. Clearly, his presence in the house wasn’t missed. But the role a father fulfilled was something powerful and...sacred. On some deeply spiritual level, children understood that—even if the father didn’t. Here was a man who was supposed to love you, protect you, provide for you,  _ die for you_, and yet he’d walked out ten seconds after you were born. Whatever her opinion of the man himself, the loss of what he represented was a stinging blow. 

He’d left...and never returned.

What guarantee was there the mother wouldn’t do the same?

Omera would in no way leave of her own accord and Din would have bet money Winta knew it. But such was the danger of darkness; it had a way of stoking irrational fears.

Refusing the very idea of it—both for himself and the girl—he leaned forward, their faces nose to nose. “You honestly believe there’s anything,  _ anything _ on God’s green earth that would keep your mother from coming back to you?”

The little girl stared back at him hard, eyes searching. Whatever she saw there, the sternness in her face quickly melted into a brave smile.

“Don’t you think on it, Winta,” the firmness in his voice catching him by surprise. “Don’t you think on it for even a  _ second_.”

Blinking away unshed tears, the eight-year-old nodded, setting her drink off to the side and reaching her arms out to be let down off the stool. Din complied, plopping her bare feet to the floor before gathering up the empty cups, filling them with water to soak in the sink, and making the return trek upstairs.

As he guided her to the bed—stealing a quick glance at the kid who, thankfully, was still down for the count inside his crib—she pulled him over, little hand tugging furiously at his larger one as she piled herself onto the twin-sized mattress, hair flipping every-which-way as she situated herself under the sheets. Din tried moving to help her settle in, but Winta’s vice-grip on his hand kept him rooted to the spot. Once all was satisfactory with the placement of blankets and a stuffed sleeping toy, Din made yet another move to back away...except Winta was having none of it.

“Will you stay for a while?”

“Winta—”

“Please?” 

Din sighed.

* * *

Omera kicked her shoes off at the door, letting both her purse and keys drop to the floor with an unceremonious _ thunk_. She’d expected the “mess” with her family to drag on well into Sunday, but was surprised to find they’d come to a—mercifully—civil agreement by late Saturday afternoon. They’d offered to put her up another day, but Omera had a child waiting for her at home—she had pointedly ignored their proddings over just  _ who _ was keeping eye on Winta in her stead—and frankly, she’d had enough of her “family” to last the entire  _ year_. She couldn’t have left that place quickly enough, and breathed a happy sigh of relief when she found herself back on the Interstate, lead-footing miles and miles of delicious distance between them.

She’d driven most of the night, wanting nothing more than the security and familiarity of home. It was all she could do now not to kiss the carpet. Rolling her shoulders and neck, she passed by the mirror in the entryway hall and groaned, wishing like hell she’d thought to freshen herself up first in the car. Though not exactly hideous, she was most definitely  _ not _ presentable enough for their  _ dishy _ male lodger and his leave-nothing-to-the-imagination, form-fitted shirts. 

...Then again, he’d been stuck in the house with two kids for two days. He may very well have collapsed into a heap in the middle of her kitchen floor.

Torn between looking cute and checking on Din, she glanced at the clock.

9:30 AM.

Omera frowned.

It  _ sure _ was quiet for nine in the morning.

No babbling babe, no Winta rushing to greet her at the door. No Chilean music blasting from the speakers of Din’s phone (though only when he made breakfast for Winta and his “son”). No activity that would suggest any of the three human beings she’d parted ways with Friday evening were even  _ alive_.

Motherly instincts kicking in, Omera dashed upstairs.

Din’s room was closest to the steps, but his door was open and his bed amiss—odd given his penchant for tidiness—so she hit Winta’s next.

The very second she stepped inside, she gasped.

The baby was motionless in his crib, out cold. Winta was as well, her left arm hooked around her favorite plush and her right peeking out from beneath the sheets, fingers gripping the hand of an equally passed-out Din. He’d pulled Winta’s old toy chest from across the room and seated himself propped up against the wall, one arm folded and ankles crossed, his head fallen forward and his free hand cradled protectively around her daughter’s, the sight of which stoked a rainbow of emotion so intense Omera had to fumble for the doorframe to keep from stumbling over.

She didn’t have it in her to disturb them, so she just stood and watched, smiling at “their kids” and the handsome “dad” who’d come tumbling into their lives.

Still, Omera felt kinda bad.

Din was gonna have one  _ heck _ of a crick in his neck.


	3. (General) Day 22 - "Precipice; Unspoken"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of prompt fills/fic requests for _The Mandalorian_. Ratings and characters vary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written to be my third and final entry for Mandothon2020 (submission since withdrawn). I'm no longer a participant, but the inspiration/prompt used was taken from their event list, so I must give credit where credit is due. This piece is told from the perspective of the oft-forgotten (and astoundingly awesome) Mandalorian blacksmith, The Armorer. There's not a lot to work with there, given her character is seen very little in-series, so I hope I do justice in "fleshing her out." 
> 
> The idea here is The Armorer (and Paz) somehow wind up traveling with Djarin and Dune during their adventures to find The Child's home. They end up on Sorgan, because reasons. Shenanigans ensue.
> 
> Let me know what you think and enjoy. ;)

"Ugh. Smells like a Bantha pit."

The Armorer ignored the remark. It was a baseless criticism—their helmets filtered out most offensive odors—fueled more so by a personal disapproval of Djarin than any outright aversion to the planet itself. They could have docked alongside crystalline waters in a field of Blueblossoms and Paz would have still responded in ill-content.

Indeed, she had no time for Vizla and his nonsensical grumblings. Instead, she turned her attention to their companion ship, the Razor Crest, searching the scenic grasslands for their beskar-clad tribesman and his alien "son." Their stopping here had been his idea. They'd taken damage during their last "confrontation" and were running low on supplies. "Sorgan" had not been the closest planet in range of their scanners but was, according to Djarin, "the safest." (How exactly he'd ascertained this, The Armorer didn't know.) It was a bit out of the way for a simple stock and fuel, and an unusual display of assertiveness for the reclusive Mandalorian rogue. But she trusted Djarin, same as she trusted any member of the tribe. If he approved of the planet, so did she.

Though that hadn't stopped her from wondering.

Finally she spotted movement near the entry ramp of Djarin's ship, his mercenary comrade "Cara Dune" first to emerge. The Armorer had been wary of her, initially, surprised by Djarin's easy acceptance of a non-Mandalorian colleague. It was not at all like the covert to associate themselves with members outside the tribe. But Djarin was unlike most Mandalorians. He socialized poorly and kept to himself, and was thus perceived as something of an outsider—an unfortunate side-effect of his own self-imposed isolation. The Armorer had suspected his behavior a defense mechanism against loss and pain; he'd never fully recovered from the destruction of his homeworld. And she'd not once believed it in his nature to be alone. Watching his chummy interactions with the boisterous brunette, The Armorer saw her suspicions confirmed.

Moments later, Djarin came into sight, swaggering towards Dune with the little baby in tow. He cradled him close with one arm and gestured animatedly with the other, giving what looked to be directions that, judging from the exasperated body language of Dune, fell on deaf ears.

The Armorer took that as a cue to reconvene.

"Paz."

With that one-word command, she and her larger Mandalorian ally advanced towards Djarin's ship, ears perking at the snippets of conversation crackling through the audio receivers inside their helms.

"We can't afford any unnecessary attention."

"Says the man outfitted head-to-toe in a bucket suit."

"Cara—!"

"I got it, I got it," the woman shook her head, something like a half-smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Don't get your beskar in a twist."

Djarin steadied his head then, hand at his hip. There was no way of knowing for sure, but The Armorer would have bet a vambrace there was a hard glare hidden beneath the facelessness of his visor.

"What's the damage?" she interjected as she closed in, hoping to bring the focus back to the matter at hand.

Immediately, Djarin tore his attention from Dune, offering a nearly-imperceptible bow at the sound of her voice. "Manageable," was his polite reply.

"Same. We'll see to repairs and move on." She tilted her head towards Paz, a silent warning not to start any _shab_. "Djarin, you brought us here. You lead the way."

And at those words, Cara's half-smirk morphed into a full-blown grin. There was clearly something "more" in the exchange than what was revealed outright, but The Mandalorian brushed it aside. Instead, and with a very pointed, upward turning of his "nose," Djarin took the front, shoving Cara's shoulder with his own as he brushed past. She returned the gesture in kind, the two of them play-wrestling the first few kilometers of the trek. Juvenile as it was, The Armorer felt herself give way to an almost-smile. She couldn't remember the last time she saw their Mandalorian "provider" so at ease.

They carried on quietly after that. All told, the hike lasted about fifteen minutes, before the forested path gave way to a tiny village nestled inside an encompassment of tall trees. It certainly was an isolated locale—she understood now why Djarin was so insistent they'd be "safe." And she found herself wondering, not for the first time, what sort of troubles had befallen him since his procurement of The Child.

Her musings fell then to The Mandalorian's tiny, alien "son," who upon seeing the village, tried squirming and wrestling his way down out of his "father's" grip. But Djarin held firm, smoothing a hand over the boy's head and muttering something in Mando'a too soft for The Armorer's receivers to pick up. The boy settled some, but kept his arm raised and outstretched, little claws flexing and unflexing as his blackened eyes darted back and forth in clear anticipation of...something.

They had indeed been here times before.

And as they rounded the first hut, Djarin and Dune at the lead, a collective of squeals fired off that kicked The Armorer's senses into high alert. The commotion was such that she thought someone had gotten shot...only to realize it was a mob of children running at high-speed towards Djarin and his pint-sized "son." Judging from the baby's flailing arms and garbled coos, the elation was mutual.

Leading the pack was a young girl, brown eyes and dark hair, whose face shown with fondness for the little boy and—with a very telling glance upwards—a fondness for The Mandalorian as well. He crouched low, depositing The Child into the waiting arms of the girl, who cuddled the alien boy affectionately against her chest. Instantly, the armored man straightened himself and pulled back, as if somehow disqualified from the merriment of the reunion. But the little girl drew him back in, throwing one arm around The Mandalorian's leg, chin pressed firmly into the curve of his side.

Though Djarin seemed taken with them all—unsurprising, given his softness for the foundlings of the tribe—The Armorer sensed there was something... _special_ about the girl wrapped tightly around his leg. (The gloved hand that brought itself to rest tenderly atop the child's messy mop of hair proved it so.) The remainder of the group, unaffected by—or perhaps even, accustomed to—the exchange, danced excitedly around Dune, who seemed content with standing off to the side and observing the bouncy bunch with a good-natured smirk.

The Armorer stole a side-glance at Paz, expression unreadable thanks to the facelessness of his gear. She sensed he was as equally taken aback. Except unlike her, Paz did not possess the same faith in Djarin or Djarin's judgment. Before she could say otherwise, the Heavy Infantry Mandalorian tromped forward, armor clattering under the weight of his steps. The action spooked the kids, the child at Djarin's leg gasping at the sight of Paz's hulking frame bounding towards them. On instinct, Djarin drew the blaster at his hip, his body serving as a literal shield against any and all potential threats.

Even at the realization of, _Oh, it's Paz_ , the blaster aimed at the larger Mandalorian's head lowered slowly, an unspoken threat of _Try something, I dare you_ radiating from the leaner Mandalorian's grip. Dune, hovering over the children Djarin's compact frame couldn't, scowled a warning of her own.

The Armorer had been right—this was _not_ the place to start any _shab_.

Ever the peace-keeper, the female Mandalorian stepped in, resting a hand on Paz's shoulder and waving Djarin's firearm down. He complied, nodding in both apology and politeness as he coaxed the little girl out of hiding from inside his cape. He guided her forward, her arms encircling The Child in a protective embrace. She lifted her eyes shyly.

"This is The Armorer, the leader of our tribe," Djarin's voice full of pride and respect as he motioned towards her. "She's very important to my people." With noticeably less enthusiasm, he gestured to Paz and added, "This is another of the covert. An ally."

The little girl stayed tucked behind Djarin's legs, but poked a head out in interest at the mention of the word "she."

"There are _girl_ Mandalorians?" the question laced with both incredulity and awe.

Djarin huffed an amused laugh.

"And your name?" The Armorer inquired, stepping forward.

The child didn't respond right away—a reservation The Armorer could respect—but with a little encouragement from Djarin offered a name—"Winta"—and a nod from behind the alien's ears before once again ducking her face into the protection of Djarin's cape.

A sudden hand at Djarin's bicep put any further introductions on hold. With a soft smack of his arm, Dune jerked her head back towards the huts of the village, a group of obviously concerned-looking men and women rushing forward to meet them.

_Parents._

To The Armorer's surprise, Djarin untangled himself gently from the little girl and nudged his way out from the center of the group. He patted her head in parting, tugging playfully at the hats of a few others grabbing at his cape, before making a beeline for the approaching mob. The action sparked amusement in Dune, who snickered hard at the departing Mandalorian's back.

Once again, The Armorer sensed a "something" to this planet beyond making repairs and stocking supplies. There was a reason, a very _specific_ reason, why Djarin had insisted on coming _here_.

And as she watched Djarin swagger not _to_ the crowd but _through_ it, his helmet searching to and fro between the figures swirling en masse, The Armorer brought her eyes back to rest on the little girl holding Djarin's "son." A little girl who had run, _caution be damned_ , with face glowing and arms wide to what most in the galaxy would flee _from_. A little girl who both knew and shared a bond with the strange, Force-sensitive, alien babe. A little girl Djarin seemed to both care for and protect, even against trusted members of his own tribe.

A little girl who had to belong to _someone_...

The Armorer's helmet whipped back to her comrade, no longer poking through the crowd but now rooted to the spot, hands at his side and head facing forward as bodies shuffled chaotically around him.

Seemed he'd found what he was looking for.

And as soon as The Armorer saw what it was, she understood.

_A woman._

A half-dozen questions fired off in The Armorer's brain: Djarin? With a _woman_? When did _that_ happen? And _how_? Had he upheld the Creed? Why hadn't he ever bothered to tell _her_?

She bounced back and forth between annoyed that he'd never made mention of it before, and intrigued that someone had piqued his interest at all. She'd observed Djarin closely through the years; he'd ignored the female Mandalorians of the tribe—save herself—and avoided forming attachments beyond what was necessary for the completion of jobs. Yet there was no denying the way his body leaned in, the way his head tilted forward, the way his hands reached out to encase the woman's fingers with his own.

Djarin was not a fickle man. The commitments he made he made with purpose...typically for life. And bringing them here proved he was neither afraid nor ashamed of his decision, though just what exactly that decision entailed remained to be seen.

One thing was certain—Djarin sure knew how to keep a space trip interesting.

* * *

The days that followed proved to be some of the most... _amusing_ of The Armorer's life.

Once all the initial "hoopla" of their arrival died down—and Djarin managed to pry himself from the spell of the pretty woman's gaze—proper greetings were exchanged, the village warm and welcoming and possessing a startlingly higher opinion of Mandalorians than either Paz or The Armorer were accustomed to. As with Winta, the concept of "girl Mandalorians" was mind-boggling for the kids (and more than a few adults). And for some strange reason, the village seemed to think she, Djarin, and Paz were all blood-related. They kept referring to Paz as Djarin's "older brother" and herself as the boys' "mom."

It admittedly felt that way sometimes.

Only Djarin's "woman"—whom The Armorer now knew as "Omera"—seemed to grasp that the trio were "tribesmen" in culture alone. In fact, Omera had proven one of the few and perhaps only of the village to understand much of, well...anything. The people of Sorgan were kind, but backwater in the extreme. It was clear Omera was not native to the planet. A part of her understood Djarin's fascination with the pretty farmer: she was as much a mystery to him as no doubt Djarin was for her. The Armorer wondered where and what Omera had come from before settling on such a nondescript piece of dirt. She was a widow—The Armorer had gathered as much from Dune—and mother of the little girl, Winta, who to the Mandalorian's great relief was not Djarin's, as she'd momentarily suspected. (Not that she'd had any personal objections to the runt, but withholding a "wife" and "child" risked their exposure, and was just an all-around "no-no" in "The Way.") Djarin likely knew Omera best, but tearing his eyeballs from the comely widow had proven as hopeless as rounding up a herd of Rancors in mating season.

To be fair, everyone _around_ them was as much to blame, so invested were Dune, the villagers, even the children in finding excuses to throw the widow and The Mandalorian together. Winta, in particular, when not tending to the alien child, made very pointed and _plotted_ efforts to keep them locked at the hip. Djarin would make an attempt at something _mildly_ constructive, some inconsequential nothing would happen—usually Winta's insistence that her mother needed help—and suddenly he was off, project be damned. And all The Armorer could do was sigh.

Still, it was hard not getting caught up in the mood. No more than she had seen, The Armorer could admit they were a good match. Omera was calm and grounded. Djarin was anxious and on alert. The widow glided along as if riding a breeze. The Mandalorian swaggered as if at odds with the very earth. The woman understood her place in the world; Djarin felt displaced inside his own skin. And though "softness" was generally spurned within the tribe, strength and fierceness prioritized over all, one look at Djarin and The Armorer knew—he would never exist without it.

Besides, "strength" manifested in many forms.

Their physicalities were comparable—Djarin was well-built, but not as "padded" as his armor might suggest—and their temperaments complimented nicely. Omera looked to be in her mid to late thirties and Djarin, if she did her math right, his early to mid-forties, at the latest. Neither exactly twenty, but more than young enough to enjoy the pleasures of the other. Assuming Omera was able in body, and it looked to The Armorer that she was, there was even time enough to bear Djarin a few offspring of his own.

Yes, their coupling was all but inevitable, especially if Dune had any say in the matter. The ex-shock trooper was, to a greater degree than even Winta, their most staunch supporter. When she wasn't cackling over Djarin's clumsy, not-so-subtle advances—the man was woefully inept at courting—she was conspiring scenarios with village folk on how best to move the relationship along. She'd even gotten into it with Paz when he'd suggested Omera "wasn't much;" that "real Mandalorians" sought "comrades-in-arms," "battlemates for war," and not "delicate flowers" who "farm krill." The snub was two-fold, belittling Djarin and Omera both, and Dune had taken it as a personal affront. With lightning speed she'd clipped him twice in his "jaw," Paz responding with a couple jabs to the rib. And before long, they were in a full-blown brawl, rolling in the dirt in the middle of the village square.

The short-lived scuffle, of which there was no clear winner, quickly morphed into bi-hourly sparring bouts between the two brawns. They traded blows and insults in equal measure, their behavior closer to that of a more traditional Mandalorian "couple." And it got The Armorer to thinking. Maybe it was the scenic landscape or the lazy afternoon sunsets. Maybe the krill the village farmed released some sort of amorous toxin into the woodsy, Sorgan air. Maybe she'd forged one too many pauldrons and coal smog had clouded her brain. But watching Dune and Paz together, the air rife with burgeoning romance, The Armorer couldn't help but wonder if Djarin and Omera weren't the only "match" worth rooting for on the planet.

Their third day on-world, Dune had been obliging enough to head into town to retrieve supplies in the Mandalorians' stead. Had the circumstances permitted it, Paz would have no doubt tagged along. But the fewer that knew of their presence on Sorgan, the better. Like it or not, Mandalorian armor drew eyes, and visibility was the last thing any of the trio wanted or needed until they'd made repairs. So Paz had taken to tinkering inside the ship, fixing what he could with what limited parts they had, while Djarin, in a rare absence from Omera's side, watched as Winta and his "boy" played near the ponds.

The Armorer decided it was as good a time as any.

Omera smiled as she approached, her fingers threading the ends of her hair as she placed the finishing touches on an elaborate braid.

"Armorer." The kindness in her voice put the female blacksmith at ease. "Can I get you anything?"

"Just the truth."

The widow woman's eyes lifted slightly at the abruptness of the remark.

"Have you seen his face? Has he shown himself to you?"

The sudden and defensive sternness in Omera's expression told The Armorer all she needed to know.

_He had not._

But she wanted to hear Omera say it.

"He's devoted to The Way," she affirmed, the admiration—not resentment—in her words not lost on the Mandalorian leader. "He's dedicated to the life he's chosen. Dedicated to his people."

The conversation had taken an interesting turn, indeed. She was _defending_ him. It went without saying that Djarin would have been just as quick to defend her.

"He likes you," the Mandalorian said simply.

"I haven't asked anything of him."

"You don't have to," her words just as accusatory as she meant them. "He'd raze the galaxy if he thought it'd please you."

At that, the widow's eyes fell, something akin to worry swirling within her dark gaze.

"And now you want me to keep away. You want me to let him go."

"I want you to help him."

The admission startled the widow, whose crestfallenness jerked into radiant shock, her mouth open and hands clenched with near-disbelief against her chest.

"But _The Way_ …"

"There are many ways," The Armorer interrupted matter-of-factly. "I believe Djarin would benefit from finding another." She tilted her head then, eyes roving the widow's figure up and down. "You're integral to that."

"It's strange to me that you would think so," Omera admitted.

"Djarin is a good man and a good Mandalorian. But he's...incomplete."

Without realizing, Omera's head angled, subconsciously mimicking The Armorer's own. "Incomplete?"

"As a person."

She paused, turning her gaze towards Djarin who stared back at them from the ponds with an ever-unknown expression hidden beneath his helmeted face.

"You, this journey, The Child—this is bigger than us. Bigger than the traditions of our tribe. Bigger than our...Creed."

Omera's eyes lowered once more, this time with a gentle fondness that stoked an oft-suppressed feeling of warmth in The Armorer's gut.

"He's special to you," she beamed knowingly. "You care about him more than the others."

Not knowing—or wanting—to respond, The Armorer remained silent.

The pretty farmer smiled at her hesitance and asked again, "Sure I can't get you anything?"

Sighing, the shorter Mandalorian jerked her head at Djarin, still gaping wonderingly from across the field.

"Fatten him up a little. Idiot keeps skipping his rations."

And with one last look at the widow woman, The Armorer turned and walked off.

* * *

It'd taken another two days—and a totally unnecessary third—to get themselves and their transports ready for flight. As refreshing as even The Armorer could admit the trip had been, it was high-time they departed, for Sorgan's safety as well as their own. They'd thanked the villagers for their hospitality, loaded the supplies Dune bought onboard, and parted ways. Djarin had been _eye-rollingly_ dramatic, lacing his fingers with the widow's and promising something—she hadn't heard what—before hoisting Winta up to balance against his hip. He'd bounced her a bit, suffered a choke-hold hug around the neck, then plopped her back at her mother's side, retrieving the alien boy from the wistful Omera's arms. He'd lingered a moment longer, massaging the ends of the widow's hair, then finally, _finally_ made for his ship.

Dune, the less theatrical of the two, simply waved, jabbing arms with her drinking buds and throwing a suggestive eye-waggle the widow's way. Paz had kept to himself, attention fixed keenly on the ex-shock trooper, his helmet following her form as she sauntered her way in and out of the crowd. The Armorer offered one final, meaningful nod to Omera, and they were off.

The supplies had set them back a bit, both in Credits and time. Yet the trip had been more than worth the delay. Though their immediate mission took priority, the female Mandalorian was ever-mindful of her covert and the Creed. They'd found temporary "lodging" following the "incident" on Nevarro, but nothing long-term. Relocating was complicated...and expensive. She hadn't even considered such a thing the first few nights. But the longer their stay in the village, the more she pondered what the covert might think of setting up a permanent base in a place like Sorgan. The planet as a whole seemed largely unpopulated, and the woodsy terrain acted as a kind of natural cloaking device from ships flying overhead. The topography would take...getting used to, after Nevarro, but there was something about Sorgan. Something more than just a pretty widow and good booze. Something really grounded and pure.

Something that had made her feel...safe.

Djarin understood it. That's why he kept going back. Which was why she'd been hesitant to bring it up. Sorgan was special and she could see Djarin fighting for it if he thought setting up base could potentially put the village—and more specifically, Omera—in harm's way. And while the "community" took precedence over any singular member of the tribe, she didn't have the heart to strip him of his one spit of sanctuary in the universe.

Of course, suggesting a permanent "residence" on Sorgan could just as easily swing the other way. Settling on Sorgan meant settling near the village, which The Armorer hoped led to Djarin settling _down_ once he resolved his responsibilities to The Child. Possibly in a way without pauldrons and beskar and faceless rendezvous in the dark. She'd meant it when she'd said life was full of "ways." And though a part of her would... _regret_ the loss of Djarin, if he ever did decide to unmask, the softer, less "warrior" parts of herself would rejoice at his finally finding peace. Or at least, a kindred spirit to help shoulder the hurdles of life.

And he would forever be one of them, one of _her_ Mandalorians. Armor or no armor. Creed or no Creed.

Always.

"We're making the jump to light speed," the ship's communication systems amplifying the already-mechanical tenor of her voice. "You guys ready?"

She was halfway through punching in the coordinates of their next destination when the receiver crackled to life.

"Just a sec. Djarin's still blowing kisses to Omera through the viewport."

A loud bark and crashing of equipment blasted through the system comm, followed by unintelligible curses and what might have been a clanging of beskar against fist. Another collision, a string of alien giggles, and the line went dead.

She was only mildly concerned they'd destroyed the cockpit when the communication static returned and Djarin regained control of the ship. He cleared his throat, a spluttered "R-ready" his lone—and obviously mortified—reply.

The Armorer shook her head and laughed.

Djarin sure knew how to keep a space trip interesting.


	4. (Just A Little Trash) Between Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of prompt fills/fic requests for _The Mandalorian_. Ratings and characters vary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My intention was to stick to something “snapshotty” for these prompts, something that was more “missing scene” and less “oh look, Kimberly can’t shut up again.” And as I’m sure you can tell by the tone of this AN, I utterly and completely failed in that regard. *facepalm* This first prompt fill is actually one part of an abandoned Mandalorian AU I’d toyed with writing, but eventually trashed in favor of my present AU (which I’ve yet to start writing...LOL), so if it feels like this “one-shot” plays out like it belongs to a larger work, that’s because it technically does (the work just doesn’t actually “exist”). And I apologize for that because I never intended for this particular plot bunny to ever see the light of day. But when the prompt request came down, I knew nothing else would so perfectly fit the bill.
> 
> And here we are.
> 
> This is for the prompt fill: **"Don't give me that look. I'm actually trying to help, you know."** Many thanks to [@asunachinadoll](https://asunachinadoll.tumblr.com/) for her request. I apologize it took SO LONG to post back (because again—this ended up WAY longer than I anticipated). Please let me know what you think. ;)

She hadn't seen it.

By some _miracle_ , Winta hadn't seen it.

It was the first thing Omera'd noticed coming up the hall. She hadn't really registered what it was at first glance—splotches of red could be literally _anything_ in an apartment building filled with elderly, pets, and kids—but at the sight of its dark hue seeping into the carpet, staining small stretches of wall where its owner had drug themselves hobblingly along, realization dawned.

And her breathing hitched when she saw _where_ the jagged trail of blood ran cold.

At the apartment door across from her and Winta's own.

Omera knew who lived there. Or rather, she knew _of_ him. He'd moved into the complex a few months back, him and his toddler "son." They'd never been "properly" introduced—she'd "run into him" heading out for work, picking up Winta from school, retrieving a delivered package from the front desk. She kept meaning to ask his name, or at the very least, ask how he liked living in Sorgan Village Apartments. But the man was quick; he moved with a purposeful, swaggered stride and whenever she attempted eye contact, he looked away.

The first few weeks, Omera had just assumed him shy. They'd crashed into each other once rounding the corner hall, and though she'd been in too big a rush to make out his features plainly, she could have sworn she saw evidence of a deep flush creeping up from the back of his neck.

The response had endeared him to her instantly.

Now, a full month into his stay at Sorgan Village, and she was still trying to figure out the mysterious man's name. She didn't know where he'd come from or where he worked. _If_ he worked. He slept less than ten steps down the hall and she'd yet to even catch a clear glimpse of his face. And though nothing in his behavior was unseemly or "out of sorts," _something_ about the man was undeniably... _odd_.

Even taking his apparent "shyness" into consideration, her neighbor was almost religiously self-contained. He never lingered in the hall, always ducking inside his apartment at the first sign of either herself or one of the other tenants. His face was perpetually turned away or hidden behind the frame of his phone. He spoke in hushed tones—in what she thought might have been Spanish, but couldn't really say for sure—and kept no company. Only the man and his son ever went in, or came out. Even the way he held his boy, as if he were shielding the kid from some unseen, invisible force, went above and beyond the typical "protectiveness" of most young dads.

Her neighbor was most definitely hiding something. She just didn't know what.

The blood trickling up and down the floor and wall only confirmed her suspicion—that their neighbor was clearly more than what he seemed. And if her instincts were right, he probably needed help.

But first things first.

Willing herself to remain calm, even amidst her _irrational_ concern for the neighbor she'd never actually met, Omera ushered her eight-year-old daughter inside. She carried on as per their normal routine, plopping her purse on the couch and depositing junk mail on the tabletop just inside the door. She watched distractedly as Winta bounded from one end of the room to the next, oblivious to the turmoil swirling inside her mother's gut. Eventually she settled cross-legged in front of the TV, her favorite toy plush cradled lovingly to her chest.

Now to get out of the apartment without sending her eight-year-old into a panic.

With quick-thinking, Omera hoisted a half-full bag of trash out of the kitchen waste bin and plucked the room key from her discarded purse.

"Winta?"

"Yes, Mama."

Swallowing thickly at the ever-growing lump at the back of her throat, Omera forced a steady voice. "I'm stepping out to the dumpster. I might check on Mrs. Waller on the way in, so it might be a minute. You stay put till I get back, okay?"

"I will, Mama."

"You don't open this door for anybody. Okay, baby?"

"Yes, Mama."

With her eyes on Winta's back, the young girl's attention never leaving the screen, Omera backed herself and her prop of trash out into the hall, locking the apartment door behind her. She looked both to the left and right—for what, Omera couldn't say—before double-stepping her way over to the neighboring flat.

And as she stood there, garbage hanging limply at her side, it occurred to her she had no real plan of approach. She could knock and hope he opened the door; that is, if he wasn't lying belly up and bleeding out on the living room floor. She certainly couldn't bust her way through, not without an extra body or two and she didn't think the man would appreciate her involving the entirety of the building in his private affairs. Heck, just _her_ being there was overstepping bounds. The man's dealings were his own and it was clearly _none_ of her business what did or didn't happen behind another person's closed door. But the man had caught her interest from almost the first second he'd moved in, and now there was the very real possibility he was hurt...or worse. She'd never look at herself the same again if she turned a blind eye and walked away.

With renewed courage and bated breath, Omera raised her hand to knock. But as her knuckles made contact with the wood, the door gave way with a subtle _creak_ , a sliver of light from the man's living quarters peeking through. On reflex, Omera's hand flattened out and slid its way to the edging of the door, pushing it all the way in as she inched herself inside.

The communality of the hall forsaken and her slender form frozen in place, she surveyed the room. Her brown eyes flicked right to left, a mixture of fear, intrusiveness, and—to her surprise— _exhilaration_ at the knowledge she had just _sorta, kinda_ broken into someone's _home_.

The words "police," "handcuffs," and "arrest" flashed across her mind. But she brushed them aside when her peripheral caught sight of a breadcrumb trail of blood splattered along the entryway rug. From there it trickled onto the hardwood, an area carpet, then off into a darkened walkway leading into the unknown.

Swallowing hard, she sat the bag of trash she was carrying off to the side. The apartment was very clean, if minimally furnished, and she felt guilty dumping trash—even if it was half-empty and bagged—onto his _spotless-save-for-the-trickles-of-blood_ floor.

Discounting the _utter_ _dumbness_ of what she was about to do, Omera stepped into the blackness of the walkway and felt her way along the wall, stopping at a strip of light gleaming from the undercrack of a door. A pained grunt wafted through the frame, and before Omera could rationalize her actions or lose her nerve, she turned the knob and tapped the door inward with her foot.

There, slumped between the tub and bathroom sink, was a man propped shirtless against the porcelain tile, blood smeared across every adjoining surface, an assortment of medical supplies scattered haphazardly in a pile at arm's length.

And he had an AMT Hardballer cocked and aimed squarely at her head.

Instantly her hands shot up, and she was hit with the numbing dread that these could very well be her last seconds on earth.

"D-don't!" both her eyes and voice pleading. "Don't shoot! I'm—" She swallowed yet another giant lump forming in the back of her throat. "Your neighbor. I'm your neighbor across the hall. My name's Omera. Please, I have a little girl!"

Either it dawned on him who she was, or the mention of a child struck a chord. But she appeared innocuous enough that the man lowered his gun, his head leaned back into the beige tiling as if lifting his weapon had sapped from him the last vestiges of his withering strength.

Judging by the state of him, it probably had.

"Please." Omera kept her arms raised, even with his gun no longer a pointed threat. "Your door was open. I was just worried. The blood—"

Her eyes drifted to the collection of slashing wounds across his arm and upper thigh.

"Good God," she breathed, fear for her own life vanishing at the sight of his bruised and battered skin.

She was at his side in a second, kneeling beside him on the bathroom tile, even at the knowledge that she was staining her own jeans with a stranger's fluids.

"What can I do? What do you need?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask who she should call, but considering how he'd _held her at gunpoint_ just moments before, she figured this wasn't the sort of "situation" that allowed for "making calls." And that they were probably very much on their own.

The danger of what this was did not escape her. But she couldn't find it in herself to care.

She asked again what should be done, but the question was met with silence. Silence, and a pair of dark, _impossibly_ soulful eyes.

It was then that it clicked—this was the first and only time she'd actually "seen" his face.

She had wondered, more than was reasonable for a woman in her late thirties to admit, what he'd looked like bare and unmasked, without the ducking, the covering, the shielding himself behind phones and walls. She'd imagined him handsome in her mind, and the reality staring back did in no way disappoint. It was the boyishness that struck her. How he was all shaggy brown ringlets curled every-which-way and patches of short, scruffy facial hair that had never quite filled in. His eyes, easily the most childlike of his features, were a deep, rich brown, innocent and soft, even as a semi-automatic pistol trembled between the fingers of his right hand.

And it was his eyes, wide and pained and pleading, that spoke what his lips would not.

 _Run_ , they said. _Go_ , they begged. _It's dangerous. I'm dangerous. Pretend you never saw me. Please._

_Please._

"Rubbish," she said aloud, for her own benefit as much as his. "I'm not leaving. Not until we patch up these wounds."

The man continued to stare, but she could see—again, in his eyes—the wavering, the caving of his resolve. The temptation to give in. The comfort of a person's touch. Not one who wanted to shoot or stab or hurt, but to help, to heal.

When was it last he'd let someone in?

"My arm's okay," he finally spoke, and she swooned a little at the huskiness of his tone. "I stitched it up."

He jostled a little, as if trying to readjust himself against the wall. Without thinking, she moved to help settle him in a more comfortable position. He jumped at the contact, offering an apology when she pulled back.

"Sorry, sorry," he ground between grit teeth at a sudden surge of pain. "I'm not used to… It's just..." he trailed off. "My leg," he finished lamely.

Omera followed where his hand grasped, just at the edges of the upper thigh where a sideways slash had split the flesh. It didn't look all that life-threatening—it was just in a really awkward spot. She could see where he'd tried pulling his pants down for better access to the wound, but had barely managed past the top-half of his pelvis before the tug of the exposed skin stayed his hand. If they could just get his jeans _off_ , the cut itself would probably be pretty easy to treat.

She hoped.

"Here." Omera moved to grip at the brim of his Wranglers. "These have to go."

Almost instantly, his hand was at her wrist. The action jolted her attention from his leg onto his face, where he stared her down with wide, mortified-filled eyes.

Under normal circumstances, she'd have thought his modesty cute. That is, if he wasn't, you know, _bleeding out all over her and everything but the kitchen sink_.

"Look. I'm not trying to expose you on purpose here, but you'll never get these things off on your own. I'm doing this with the best of intentions and I mean absolutely no disrespect. I'll touch only what I have to and keep my eyes down."

To her dismay, the man didn't budge.

"This is weird for me too, you know," her words taking on an affronted tone. "It's not often I'm dragging down the pants of a man I've just met."

He flushed full-body red at that one, but didn't relax his grip.

"I have a daughter," she reasoned, frustrated by his prudish resolve. "I know what you guys look like." With a huff and a pointed glare, she added, "I'm just trying to help, you know."

At that, the man regarded her—embarrassed, but collected—rolling her words around inside his brain as his eyes took in the full expanse of her face. He lingered there, studying and searching—for ill intent, maybe?—until his gaze softened and she ever-so-slowly felt the uncoiling of his fingers from around her wrist. Resigned and _noticeably_ pink, he nodded her his consent to proceed.

With the traitorous prickling of heat creeping into her own cheeks, she granted him a warm smile, squeezing at the forearm he'd just withdrawn. And with her second ingenious moment of quick-thinking for the day, she yanked a clean towel down from the overhead rack, plopping it into the man's lap with a _swoosh_.

"For cover," she winked.

The man clutched the towel with a breathy laugh, his reciprocating smile shy.

Omera'd meant it when she said she wasn't in the habit of pulling down strange men's pants. But if fate demanded it, she sure was grateful that the pants were _his_.

* * *

Thirty minutes—and lots of wiggling and hissing—later, the mysterious man's jeans were off, his thigh wound clean, and with more than a little help from Omera, was standing upright for the first time since he'd staggered home. Whatever embarrassment he'd felt had subsided at the burning sensation of rough material dragging across open skin, so much so he'd forgotten the towel that had bucked out of his lap when the brim of his Wranglers snagged passing over the cut. (Why on earth he wore jeans with such a snug fit was beyond her.) Once the realization that he'd been _laid utterly bare before her_ kicked in, he'd yelped—in a way she was certain might shoot him straight through the ceiling of his apartment—scrambling to put the fabric back in place and the accompanying flush so deep she couldn't tell what was blood or just his inflamed skin.

For all her talk of "nonchalance," she'd flushed as well—she hadn't _meant_ to look, her face was just kind of... _there_ —and had focused all her energy on wiping away excess blood and forcing herself to be very matter-of-fact about what and where she had to touch.

The second he was stitched and on his feet, he'd hobbled hurriedly—again, with some assistance from her—into the back room, rifled through a drawer for some trousers with a decidedly looser fit, and all but threw himself over the bars of the bedroom crib. There, his young "son" sat, staring up at him with wide eyes and raised hands, begging to be held. The man complied instantly, cuddling the boy close and whispering words of comfort against the silvery blond wisps of hair pin-pricking from the top of his head. The sight of him huddling his young "son," so trusting of his "father's" embrace, warmed Omera's heart. And she found herself as relieved as he that the small child was safe and unharmed.

"Thank you," he finally said, his words spearing through her thoughts as he angled his body to address her. "Thank you for your help."

The look on his face was so genuine, she had to lower her eyes to keep from toppling over.

"It was nothing, really…" she trailed off, willing herself not to swoon.

The effect he had on her was almost frightening.

"Hardly," he disagreed, stepping forward to stand directly in her line of sight. "I'd still be rolling around the bathroom floor if not for you." He tipped his head, coaxing her eyes to meet his own.

Again, he nodded.

"Thank you."

Wordlessly, they stared one another down, the air between them charged. Only at the sound of the baby's contented coo did Omera remember she was standing in an armed and obviously dangerous stranger's apartment. A stranger she was probably better off not getting too attached or attracted to. She collected herself by motioning towards the man's "son."

"He's good, I see."

"Thankfully, yes."

"I guess it goes without saying I shouldn't ask what happened."

"It goes without saying you should forget we even met."

Her head snapped up at that, irrationally offended at the suggestion—they'd only "known" one other all of maybe forty-five minutes—even against the part of her that knew that whatever _this_ was between them would likely never last.

Because again. They'd only "known" one another little under an hour.

She protested all the same.

"You live literally seven steps down the hall. I just helped you stitch up a gash across your thigh with your dangly bits all but smacking me in the face. And I'm just supposed to 'forget' you exist? Act like nothing's happened?"

His full body blush returned with a vengeance at the words "dangly bits," and it dawned on her that whatever his "profession"—she had more than a few ideas about it bouncing around inside her head—it probably didn't afford the luxury of things like friends, family...significant others.

Pushing her away was for _her_ benefit, she knew. But she wagered he was lonelier than he let on.

And once again, she found herself endeared.

"My daughter and I like to swim," she offered, switching tactics. "We were thinking of going this Saturday, around noon."

Omera smiled at the confusion over her sudden change of topic, even as his body burned bright red.

"So if we just _happened_ to bump into one another, and maybe _accidentally_ sat next to each other at the dock, it'd still qualify as us having never _technically_ met, right?"

The man boggled in silence, mouth parted slightly in wonderment, as the baby, vying for attention, slapped at his "father's" chest with playful swats.

"My bathing suit's on the conservative side, so it's not what you'd call a 'fair trade.' Even so, I figure, after today and all, I owe you some skin."

His eyes widened at the remark, and it was then she turned to leave, figuring it was best she vacated the room before his entire body really did burst into flame.

"Oh!" Her finger shooting up in remembrance as she halted her movements towards the door. "One last thing. Would you mind chucking my trash? I left a bag of it at the front of your apartment and I...can't take it back."

She tossed him a sheepish smile.

The man simply nodded, not even bothering to ask.


	5. "The Look"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of prompt fills/fic requests for _The Mandalorian_. Ratings and characters vary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I may have strayed a _bit_ with this one. The character focus was supposed to be Winta and Din—and it is—except Winta doesn’t make an appearance in-story (she’s mentioned, but not physically present), and is in fact replaced by Cara (rest assured, the Winta and Din dramatics are absolutely the focal point of the fic). So yes, the prompt is still, well, _on prompt_ , but in kind of an unconventional way due to how I framed the setting. Annnnnnd there’s a fair amount of #mandomera here because Cara’s involved (who’s the biggest DinxOmera shipper there is) and without Winta there to kind of “ground” the conversation, insinuations (and Din’s full-body blushes) abound.
> 
> This prompt takes place within my (yet-to-be-written) Mandalorian AU, falling within the same story universe as Chapter 2 (i.e. “Sleepy; Recovery”). Cara is a bartender at “Club Karga,” and Din a previous employee/regular patron. Also, I’ll give you three guesses as to the identity of “Emily.” *winks*
> 
> This is for the prompt fill, **“How can I ignore the puppy dog eyes? It’s unfair!” “You can’t, that’s the point.”** This is the first fic of a two-prompt request, courtesy my Tumblr soulmate, [@amukmuk](http://amukmuk.tumblr.com/). This one's for you, hun. :D

Din had a self-imposed, two-drink maximum—poor sod couldn't hold his liquor for beans—but she could tell by the look on his face he was seriously considering a third.

That in and of itself piqued her interest.

The problem with Din wasn't that he _wouldn't_ share. The problem was in getting him to where he felt comfortable enough to express himself out loud. He was sociable...in a reserved way. It took the right setting and the right people to get him going. And while they hadn't been friends for long, she took pride in knowing she was one of those people. He was more comfortable with her than anyone else at Club Karga, save for Emily.

But it seemed she was elsewhere tonight.

Cara allowed for another three minutes of Din staring holes into the tabletop of the bar before heaving an exasperated sigh and palm-slamming her hands on either side of his wrists.

"Okay, what is it?"

"Huh?" he startled, neck and shoulders jerking at the suddenness of Cara's face peering agitatedly into his own.

"You've been all 'the weight of the world is on my shoulders' tonight,"—she whirled her head in dramatic emphasis—"and I'd just as soon get this week's episode of 'The Young and the Dramatic' over with before the eleven 'o clock rush hits."

Djarin shot her an affronted glare, angling his face to the side to sip at his beer.

"God," Cara sighed again, sliding her body backwards in defeat. "Would you just ask her _out_ already? Or better yet, _marry_ her. Put the both of you out of your friggin' misery."

Heat pooled in his cheeks at her words. But he said nothing.

"Alright," Cara relented with a shrug. "But when she comes slinking into your bedroom dressed in some barely there, see-through nightie and pounces on you at 2AM, don't _call_ me—"

"This isn't about Omera," an indignant flush fanning out across his face and disappearing down beneath the open collar of his shirt.

Admittedly, the "tension" with his "landlady" wasn't the most "pressing" of Djarin's "troubles." His life had been totally upended in the last year and a half, thanks in no small part to the "adoption" of his now 14-month-old "son." Then there was the matter of his accepting a new teaching position at St. John's (for which he felt totally ill-equipped...and probably was). Financially, he was alright—he had a military pension for his 23 years of service—but teaching was hardly a lucrative profession. Private school teachers made pennies, and raising a child wasn't cheap. Cara could only imagine the responsibility that weighed on his mind, all of which took priority over the state of his (painfully nonexistent) love life.

Except, "Omera drama" was way more fun.

"Well if it's not you drooling hopelessly over your sexy landlady, what, pray tell, is the problem?"

This time it was Djarin who sighed, face and neck red, but threw his friend a thoughtful glance. Cara liked that about Din. He was rarely, if ever, offended over a good-natured tease.

"Winta's class is doing this 'father-daughter day' thing at school." A pause. "She asked me to come."

Ah, Winta. Omera's cutesy, eight-year-old daughter and the second-largest reason why Cara pushed for Djarin and his landlady to tie the knot. In less than a year, Din had grown unashamedly attached to the little tyke—picking her up, fixing her lunches, touting her along on trips with him and his "son." That he not-so-subtly treated her like his own was lost on no one.

It wouldn't have surprised Cara in the least if she'd started calling him "Dad."

"And you said 'yes.'"

Din sighed again, tipping back for another sip of beer.

"And now you wished you hadn't?"

"What was I thinking?" he settled forward with a frown, the bottom of his glass clanking angrily against the bar. "I had no business agreeing to such a thing."

Cara leaned in against the counter, brow raised. "How do you figure?"

"It's not my place."

By far, Djarin's most _aggravating_ quality was his deflated sense of self-worth. That he and Omera were "meant to be" was as obvious as water was wet. The woman would have accepted a proposal after a _month_ , but Din, in all his infinite _lowliness_ , had a propensity for getting in his own way. He loved Omera. He loved her little girl. And they could easily spend the rest of their lives _nauseating_ everyone around them with their Photoshop perfectness... _if_ he could ever manage to unscrew his head from the insides of his own ass.

Cara breathed a disbelieving noise through her mouth. "You're full of it."

But Din carried on, eyes glued to his beer as his thoughts swirled in the stormy seas of mental self-doubt. "The Almighty knows what Omera must think."

"'Awesome?' 'Great?' 'Fantastic?'" she rattled off, holding back the hand itching to jerk him in his jaw. "Pick an adjective, Din."

Another defeated sigh. "I doubt she sees it that way."

"Did she say something?"

He shook his head, fingers tap-tapping thoughtfully against the cool moisture of the glass. "...No. But Omera's too nice to ever really _say_ anything."

Once again, Cara's fingers twitched with the urge to smack at the back of Djarin's curly-haired head. So she settled for an eye roll instead. "Or she's just, I don't know, _happy_ at the prospect of her fatherless daughter getting a chance to spend time with a _real_ dad."

At the words "real dad," Din scoffed, throwing his friend a disbelieving look.

"Well if you didn't want to do this whole 'father-daughter' school thing, why'd you agree to go?"

A grimace washes over Djarin's face, and Cara gapes at the expressiveness of his features in light of how little he actually spoke out loud. Not that he needed to. His reactions were stupid easy to read.

"She...she gave me 'the look.'"

"'Look'?" Cara raised a brow, unsure of what he was insinuating.

Djarin pursed his mouth in annoyance, as if just saying so was explanation enough. "The _look_. You know." He jostled with a dramatic swirl of his drink. "Big eyes, pleading face…" he trailed off as if the memory alone would desolidify him on the spot.

"You could have just said 'no,'" she offered, the edges of her mouth curving up into an amused half-smirk.

Djarin glared into his cup with a huff of offense. "I...can't. Not...not when she gives me 'the look.'"

Cara snickered, half-smirk widening into a cheshire grin at the sight of her friend's equal parts reddened and frustrated face. "I think that's kind of the point."

He rerouted his glare from the glass onto Cara, who only shrugged and grabbed at a nearby cleaning rag, draping it over her shoulder with a snort.

"Don't 'skunk eye' me just because you're too whipped and spineless to tell your kid 'no.'"

"She isn't _my_ kid, Cara."

"No?" Throwing the negation back at him a third time, she lowered herself again to meet his gaze, hands balled into fists against the bar. "How many times a week do you tuck that kid in bed, Djarin?"

"I—"

"Who watches Winta after school and on weekends when Omera gets called in for overtime at work?"

"That's not—"

"Which of you was running to the gas station at one in the morning for ginger ale when Winta's stomach was on the bum?"

"Those are hardly—"

"Where's the baby sleep, Djarin?"

His body visibly stiffened at that one. It was a cheap shot to take—mentioning the boy was a surefire way to strike a chord—but Cara had a point to make and Din needed to hear it.

"Oh, that's right. With _Winta._ You took the baby's crib out of _your_ room and set it up in _hers_ so she and the baby could bunk together"—she clasped her hands together in mock cuteness—"like 'widdle' brother and sister."

"That was Omera's idea," his eyes narrowing at the sickening sweetness of her tone.

"Yeah and you went right along with it," Cara accused, sniggering at the paltry defense. "Face it, Djarin. You'd take a bullet to the balls for either of those girls and _everybody_ knows it."

She steeled then, half-expecting him to fuss, carry on with some sort of tired excuse. But instead, he exhaled with yet _another_ heavy sigh, offering not a protest but a soul-baring admission of doubt.

"I...might mess something up."

Poor bastard. Cara marveled at his insecurities with a shake of her head.

"I know things can get pretty rough out there in the _second grade_ ," her voice laden with sarcasm, "but I promise no one will laugh at your crappy coloring skills."

"Winta and I look nothing alike," he continued on, pointedly ignoring her mocking remarks. "Even a blind man can see I'm not her biological father."

"And?" she questioned, brow raised and weight supported on an elbow as she leaned in. "Don't know if you've noticed, Djarin, but most families nowadays come in a pretty mixed bag. It's not likely anybody really gives a shit. And seriously? Since when did you?"

"I _don't_ ," he avowed with fervor. "But Winta—"

"Winta _adores_ you," cutting him off before the words could leave his lips. "That's kinda why she asked you to go," the implied _duh_ at the end of the sentence practically glowing neon in the air between them.

Djarin brought the glass to his face in an effort to hide the flush forming across the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to embarrass her." He paused. "...Or myself."

"Fat chance!" Cara burst with a laugh, slapping a hand against the countertop and chortling even louder at the puzzlement settling on Djarin's face. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain; clearly, he wasn't sure how to interpret that last remark.

"Don't worry about it," she added with a small laugh and reassuring wave. "Just let things be. It'll work itself out in the end."

Din's shoulders sank a little then—either from relief or exhaustion, she wasn't sure—and Cara felt herself smile with fondness at the insufferableness of her friend. Dumbass was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch, even more so as it pertained to the subject of his "kids." Thank heaven for Omera, who seemed to understand just what to say and just what to do to keep him calm. The pretty woman was seemingly never perturbed, about anything—or she just processed stress more efficiently than Din—and Djarin was (and had been for as long as she'd known him) in _desperate_ need of that kind of comforting reassurance in his life.

...That, and about two straight weeks of Omera riding him senseless on her bedroom floor.

But first things first.

"So...are you good? Because I really do need to start prepping for tonight's crowd."

Another flush of color, once again sinking down beneath the dip of his shirt, and a rattling of ice as he shook his head behind the security of his now emptied drink.

"And you're still go for filling in at Winta's school?"

Once again, Din nodded.

"And you're gonna rush home, kiss Omera, confess your love and rip off—"

He was up off his bar stool and waving his thanks—the coloring of his flush gradating from pink to carmine to the blazing magmas of _hell_ —before swaggering to the exit and half-tripping down the doorstep to his bike.

Cara snickered.

Guess he wouldn't be needing that third drink.


	6. Motivator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of prompt fills/fic requests for _The Mandalorian_. Ratings and characters vary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a twofold update—this being the second of two prompts received within the same request—so please be sure and check out the previous chapter, in case you overlooked it on the way here. (Especially if you’re a fan of Winta, Cara, and Din.) 
> 
> This chapter was inspired by the lovely and absurdly talented [Manfie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manfie/pseuds/Manfie) and her story, [The Man Under the Armor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213344) (a #mandomera fic that if you haven’t read, WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING BECAUSE YOU SHOULD). Plot, characters, and setting fall within the world of THAT story universe and not my own; however, I’ve kept the circumstances here vague (and the fic as a whole short) so as not to contradict future elements of her fic and/or stray too far from what she’s developed in-saga (which I absolutely did not want to do because I wrote this wholly out of respect). I also tried to write closer to/more in the technique/voice of Manfie’s styling (again, rather than my own), but I’m not sure how successful I was in that regard. (LOL.) Even so, it isn’t absolutely necessary you read TMUtA (except you should, because it’s incredible) to understand the general going-ons of this short.
> 
> This is for the prompt fill, **“The faster you get here, the faster I can smother you in affection.”** Many thanks to [@amukmuk](http://amukmuk.tumblr.com/) for her request. I do hope these prompts satisfy (given how long you had to wait to read them).

"How are...things?"

Omera's kind voice wafted through the com-link, and not for the first time he wished there was some reasonable excuse to bring the widow along for the ride. ...Except there really wasn't. This wasn't a vacation; she'd be in greater danger _with_ him than back home, _someone_ had to look after the kids, and stowing away with her would ignite rumors he wasn't quite secure enough in himself to entertain. And yet the sound of her voice only served to further fuel the electricity-charged air between them—a sensation he couldn't quite wrap his brain around given Omera was stationed more than a hyperdrive away on Sorgan—and so he stared the com-link down, as if doing so would somehow magically _will_ Omera's body into the empty cockpit space beside him.

(And consequently, ease the misery of his own _want_ -induced suffering.)

"Quiet," came his modulated reply, and he wondered briefly if she'd prefer it if communications were had with his helmet off. But she was moving on with the conversation before he could dwell any further on the idea.

"Winta says 'hello.'" Din could hear the smile in her voice. "She's cuddled up with the little one, fast asleep."

It's moments like these, moments when his _riduur_ -to-be shares an unthinkably precious thing that he's forced to live second-hand instead of experiencing for himself, see with his own two, naked eyes that he wishes like hell he'd never sworn the Creed.

It frightens him to think he might resent it a little.

"She's so in love with that doll," the woman carries on, oblivious to the turmoil swirling inside the Mandalorian's gut. "It's tucked in between her and the boy." Again, her voice swells with fondness that he feels even through the beskar-plated coverings of his chest. "His is as well."

The dolls had become permanent fixtures around his and Omera's huts. They rarely left the safety of the house—the boy's in his crib, Winta's tucked beneath the blankets of her cot—so fearful they had seemed at dirtying them, damaging them, _losing_ them. A selfish part of him hoped that clutching the dolls tightly to their tiny frames, the kids thought of him, missed him. He certainly thought of _them_ , missed _them_ , wished they were near to gather up into his arms. It went without saying that every fiber of his being protested at the distance between himself and his _cyare_.

What he wouldn't give to have _her_ tucked in beside him on the ship, sailing through stars on the compact bedding inside the Crest. Nestled between the wall and his chest. Fingers threading through her hair, trailing the full length of her spine, cradling a thigh to lay loosely over his own...

He really needed to quell those thoughts. It'd be a time and a half before he made it back, and roleplaying Omera on the ship with him would do nothing to ease the ache that'd been steadily building since he com-linked home.

"Are you taking time to eat?"

Startled out of his fantasies, Din paused, placing a careful hand at the controls to steady his nerves. It still struck him as mind-boggling that someone in the universe actually _cared_ , though he couldn't rightly tell if it was admonishment or worry lacing her words.

"The Armorer mentioned you had a tendency to skip rations."

Admonishment. Definitely admonishment.

"I ate earlier," the skepticism in the responding silence palpable. "Promise."

"Sleeping?"

Djarin sighed. It'd been two days since his departure, and he'd only managed a handful of hours of sleep—all fitful and uncomfortable and cramped. Part of it was guilt at leaving the covert so soon after settling in. Part of it was fear of some tragedy befalling the village in his absence. But mostly it was his wanting to be anywhere but there, traveling out in space _alone_ , light years from his _yaim_ and from the comforting embrace—and kisses, and encouragement—of his girl. Din knew separation from a _cyar'ika_ was hard, but he wondered if all Mandalorians felt it with the same intensity as he.

Made him question if he really was as dramatic as Cara always claimed.

"I...somewhat," figuring there was no sense in trying to lie.

"Bad dreams?"

 _Stars_ , how he loved the softness of her voice. It was the kind of outsider gentleness "true" Mandalorians spurned.

But Din couldn't be bothered to give a damn.

"No," he shook his head, realizing a bit belatedly that she wasn't there in person to see his motions. "Just missing home."

" _Yaim_ ," she repeated back in Mando'a, the pronunciation so on point he felt himself sink a little in his seat.

"Someone's been practicing."

Hearing the huskiness of his reply made him wonder if this wasn't an inkling of how Omera felt listening to him speak Mando'a to _her_. And the shy giggle that wafted back through the airwaves shot straight to his groin.

"It's an easier word, I think." There was a distinct rustling of what Din could only assume were sheets, and the thought of her lounging around on her bedroll—or better yet, _his_ bedroll out in the barn—made his throat dry. "I'll need help with the trickier ones."

"Hmm," was all he had presence of mind to say.

"Something we could work on through the trip?" she offered, probably as an excuse to keep communications on. Not that she would have needed one.

"Be easier in person," he croaked, his words far ahead of his brain, which had somewhere along the way turned into a heaping pile of Mandalorian mush.

"Then you'd better hurry back."

Djarin was suddenly very grateful for the distance of space. Because he didn't think he could trust himself on-world not to gallop the stretch to her house, kick down the door, and smother her at the suggestiveness of her tone.

"Mind you, I'll have to think of how to repay you for the lessons."

He mentally retracted every thought he'd ever had of her gentleness, her compassion, because it was obvious in that moment she was in for the kill. Din wondered if the fresher had water enough to extinguish the molten _fire_ coursing through his veins.

But before he could formulate any semblance of a response—which wasn't likely to have made much sense, given the state of his brain—a blip on the navigator flashed, pulling both his eye and attention from the com.

"I'm here."

Almost instantly the conversation turned from sensual to serious as the weight of his objective came crashing down. And with a steadying exhale—either in disappointment or concern, he couldn't tell—Omera cut their communications short.

"Stay safe."

Once again he nodded, and not for the benefit of his _cyare_ , but as a sort of challenge to the universe to _get in my way, I dare you_. It might have been frustration. It might have been the searing heat pooled in the pit of his gut. But as soon as his affairs were settled, _he was going home_. Not even the entirety of the Imperial fleet could deter his course. He had places to be and things to do, if he had to raze half the solar system to see them done.

"Be thinking of some words you'd like to learn."

It was a promise and then some, a promise he hoped assured her he was on his way back to her, to Sorgan, their kids. And he'd teach her. He'd tell her anything and everything she wanted to know. Whatever it took, however long it took. Galaxy be damned.

And maybe, just maybe...she could teach _him_ a few things too.


End file.
